


boner insurance

by ravenousgrue



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Dominance, Gunplay, M/M, Unsanitary, breeding kinda, some humiliation, this is very silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 03:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4163754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenousgrue/pseuds/ravenousgrue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>this is a kink meme fill i did about how immortan joe copes with having a persistent boner from whatever the organic mechanic shoots his dick up with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	boner insurance

The further away the Old World got, the easier it was to let it slip away. To forget all the little things that were once taken for granted, to no longer feel the need to make the separation between Before and After. Some things, though, some things brought it all roaring back. Things like having a bad reaction to some medication that wasn't so much science as it was a barely sane man guessing. Things like having a roaring erection since the previous night.

Things like not being able to call up his 'old friends' and tell them that he was indisposed. They'd put this meeting off months as it was, and the longer communication was relegated to brief flashes of Morse code, the more vulnerable they all were. They had to meet. They had to discuss very, very important matters and he had to do it with an insufferable hardon. Was he going to have it forever? Was it going to goddamn kill him? Would he have to very soon incorporate death-by-erection as one of the most honorable ways to access Valhalla?

Somehow he got dressed and somehow he made it into the war room. He'd just wait for them to arrive. It wasn't as though he made a habit of meeting them when they arrived, though he generally did prefer to do it on his feet. He'd make an exception today.

They arrived and it was entirely what he expected: a laundry list of complaints, outrageous demands, more reasonable demands made more appealing in the shadow of their outrageous cousins, and some less than good-natured commentary on how he ran the Citadel.

But they got through it, somehow. In retrospect, it had been the smoothest any of their gatherings had ever been, perhaps in large part because he'd barely spoken or argued. People Eater was all too eager to leave. The Citadel was too pristine for his tastes, and with a parting remark about the outrageous costs of the Citadel's opulence, he was lumbering away, half dragged by his servants.

Kalashnikov remained. Seated. Staring.

"You're dismissed," Joe grunted at him. He wondered if he would just get used to this relentless, painful throbbing. Like a headache, only it was his dick crammed into a codpiece instead of brain hammering on the inside of his skull.

"Lookin' a little pale there," Kalashnikov said, "Paler than usual."

"I'm very well. I had a transfusion just a few days ago. You're dismissed."

"Pale and agreeable," Kalashnikov pressed. He leaned forward in his seat, squinting over at him, "Did your little Wasteland Princesses gang up you, Daddy? Take you down a notch or two, just the way you like?"

Joe went very still for a moment and then his brows pushed together as he scowled.

"You're dismissed. And watch your tone on the way out, Bullet Farmer."

"Ohh, a little too close to the mark, am I?"

"Don't," Joe ground out, gripping the table with both hands.

"What are you going to do?" Kalashnikov grinned, the dull wet metal jammed into his gums glinting dully, "Sweat on me? Lookin' pretty peaky, Daddy."

"Stop it," Joe snapped at him.

"What?"

"Don't call me that."

"I thought it was what you liked."

"Not from you, it isn't."

Kalashnikov threw back his head and roared with laughter, slapping the table before he used it to push up off of, slowly making his way over. Joe watched him, wary and angry. Either he was particularly lucid this visit or he was going to shove a gun in his face, and he wasn't much in the mood for either.

"Oh, don't get up," Kalashnikov said, "Just getting a better look," he let out a low whistle and Joe was sure if his blood wasn't goddamn busy elsewhere some of it would've rushed to his cheeks in humiliation, "Startin' to get the night sweats, are you? You look like a dog's dinner."

"No," Joe said. Kalashnikov looked doubtful, and Joe relented. He'd only get more irritating the longer he was put off, "I took some medication last night and I'm... having a reaction to it."

Kalashnikov's eyebrows shot up.

"Medication is a strong word," Joe said, shifting his weight in his seat and regretting it, needing to take a minute to collect himself again, "I've had an erection for at least twelve hours."

There was dead silence at first, and then more roaring laughter, and Joe weathered it because what else could he do? He sincerely doubted any threats he made right now would hold any weight. He just wanted Kalashnikov to leave.

"Having some trouble keepin' your stable satisfied, Daddy?"

"No. It's just... insurance."

"Boner insurance."

"Fuck you."

"I'd be careful what words I'm slingin' around if I were you," he delivered it with a predatory growl, a lean towards him that invaded his personal space, and Joe gave him the ugliest look he could manage.

"Leave."

"Why not use those War Boys of yours?" Kalashnikov wondered. He tried to peek under the table and Joe shoved his shoulder. It made him laugh.

"I did," Joe said, terse, "It didn't help and now it just hurts."

"Try lube, you savage."

"That isn't why!"

"Maybe you're goin' about it wrong," he sat down again, his expression turning smug.

"It's a problem with the medication, there's nothing I can do."

"Or you're doin' it wrong."

"What is there to do wrong!?"

"How long since you've been buggered proper?"

Joe's eyes were so narrow they were barely slits, and his hands curled into fists.

"Get out."

"Ohh, sensitive," Kalashnikov's smile was an oily one, "That's all right. I wasn't gonna offer, anyhow. I know where you've been you lumpy poof."

He stood and stretched, still long and lean even after so many decades, and he rolled his shoulders. His actions were stiff these days, but still fluid, and Joe envied him.

"I think I'll stay the night," Kalashnikov said, "Gettin' late, anyhow, and I'm really enjoying the fresh air. Fresher than mine, anyhow. Wouldn't mind a hot meal and a cold glass of water."

"Do what you want," Joe said. Anything to get him to leave the room, "Just don't bother me for rest of your stay!"

Kalashnikov laughed and swaggered out and Joe didn't know how long he stewed in the war room before he finally struggled out himself, returning to the vault. He just needed some rest. He'd sleep and wake up and the nightmare would be over.

Sleep eluded him and by the time the sun went down he was certain he was going to lose his mind. Anything, anything to be flaccid again. He called Toast in first, and when she was no help, he tried Capable. She was the only one who ever did anything he said explicitly and even she was taken aback by the request he'd made. Joe allowed himself to be privately surprised that she didn't secretly relish the idea, but her expression suggested she wasn't a fan of what she was being confronted with, visually, even if the act itself was no bother.

He was in Kalashnikov's room by midnight and the son of a bitch had been waiting up for him, reading by lantern light. The Bullet Farmer only barely looked up from his book when he saw Joe standing there in nothing but his linens, a faint smirk on his craggy face.

"What?" he asked, still scanning the page he was on.

"You know what!"

"Say it."

"Don't play games," Joe moved towards him, stiff and awkward, and even though he loomed over the thinner man Kalashnikov wasn't the least bit intimidated. The tent in his pants was having a dampening effect on his usual menace.

"Or what?"

Joe lunged at him but he was too slow, too stiff, and after a shamefully brief wrestling match he was on his belly and his dick was jamming uncomfortably into his stomach as he was pressed to the bed and it was all he could do not to whimper in pain. He was used to pain these days. Everything was a dull, steady throb, but this was sharp and constant and possibly a risk to his increasingly overtaxed heart.

"Ask," Kalashnikov hissed in his ear.

"Just fuck me, idiot!" Joe snapped at him. His voice cracked and Kalashnikov had a good laugh over that one, the son of a bitch. His anger gave him a second wind and he struggled until he felt cold metal press against his temple. At that, he froze.

"Don't."

"Ask."

"Just do what I came here for. It was your idea!"

"Ask."

Joe took a deep breath that rattled in his chest and came out half-cough and he ground his teeth together. Why had he even bothered? It wouldn't help. He just had to wait for the drug to leave his system. Maybe he wasn't drinking enough water. Maybe he'd gotten bad blood and that was the real problem.

Maybe he just hadn't been fucked in awhile.

"Fuck me."

"Ask nice."

"You piece of shit," Joe hissed at him, "I can have a dozen War Boy's in here-"

"If that's what it takes," Kalashnikov gave him a solid swat on the rear and Joe knew he wasn't going anywhere.

"Please fuck me," Joe said, still managing to make it sound more like a command than a request.

There was a heavy CLICK he could feel right up against his skull and it made his whole body jerk in alarm, and for a single glorious second Joe was certain he'd go instantly flaccid. But he didn't.

"Do not point that fucking gun at me the entire time," Joe growled, flinching when his pants were yanked down, the material scraping against his oppressive fucking hardon. The gun moved away from his temple and he decided he'd pretend it was actually gone, so long as Kalashnikov refrained from pulling the trigger. For all he knew, the thing was loaded. Again, he hoped the knowledge would have some effect on his predicament, but all it did was make him more tense. This goddamn madman had been sniffing lead for almost half a century now and he was trusting him with his ass.

Desperate times.

There was a slop of something thick and slimy and cool against his asshole and he didn't make a peep of complaint. He barely managed to keep silent when Kalashnikov started working a finger in. Had he even washed his hands?

Did it matter, at this point?

The man had long fingers, with knobby joints and knuckles and it'd been a long while. A long, long while. Hell, it wasn't helping his dick situation at all. Why did he think it would? If anything, he was just toeing the line of how much blood flow could be diverted to his cock before his heart gave out, but he supposed if this was how he was going to die, he might as well goddamn enjoy it.

By the time Kalashnikov was up to three fingers his breathing was heavy and labored. Lying flat on his chest wasn't ideal, but there were far more sores and growths on his back, and this way he didn't have to see how the Bullet Farmer was looking at him. He knew how, and he didn't want to see it. Didn't want to be reminded that his friend, however lucid he was at times, was losing his mind. Slowly but surely, the lead was eating holes in his brain. There was a weird light in his eyes, a strange, mad glint, and it bothered him. It made eye contact difficult. It was good they barely saw each other anymore.

The sudden withdrawal of Kalashnikov's fingers stirred him from his maudlin introspection, but he didn't even have a moment to complain before his fingers were replaced with his dick. He wasn't packing much heat but it was more than enough to force a groan out of him. It was enough that he didn't even protest when he felt the barrel of a gun poke at the base of his spine and scrape upwards, tracing the contour, dodging any particularly bulbous looking growths. As he pushed himself into Joe he brought the gun between his shoulder blades and pulled the trigger, and the Click made both of them jerk and hiss and grunt.

"Shit," Joe managed, making fists in the linens that wrapped up the bed, "You're a lunatic."

"Says the man with five teenage girls locked in a cave."

"They're not...!" he was practically gargling his own saliva at this point, "One of them is twenty."

"All that breeding to do and nobody to breed you," Kalashnikov rasped, "Bound to back a man of your exacting tastes up eventually. You've got the shape for it these days, don't yah, Daddy? All them curves."

He received another sharp smack on the ass but before he could buck him off and turn on him the gun was up against the back of his head and there was a fist in his hair, and Joe went very still. Both of them breathing together like this, fucking like this, it sounded like a struggling V8, and Joe was convinced that if this didn't work he would legitimately lose his fucking mind.

"I'll pump you fulla lead and you're gonna shit out a Howitzer for me, you delusional old fuck," Kalashnikov was right in his ear, now, hissing his words. He pulled the trigger and the click shot through Joe's body and he barely enjoyed the orgasm, certain that the sticky, warm fluid on his belly now was blood and not cum, but too tired to check. He did managed to snag the gun when Kalashnikov nudged it against his cheek and made a kissing noise and he tossed it on the floor and away from the bed.

It discharged a bullet and after a stunned silence, both of them were laughing. They were wheezy, labored laughs, the laughs of two old men on a porch sharing a yarn, and Joe realized then that his dick had finally gone soft.

"You're a sick fuck, Major," Joe muttered, finally daring to turn his head, one eye looking up at Kalashnikov, who was already flinching and delicately arching his back. Probably pulled something. Good. Joe hoped it hurt for days.

"You're welcome, Colonel."


End file.
